


Venus in Furs, Castiel in Cuffs

by rosie_berber



Series: I'm Like Oscar the Grouch. I Live in a Trash Can. [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Castiel, Bunker Dungeon, Bunker Sex, Castiel/Dean Winchester in the Bunker, Dom Dean, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff and Smut, Fluffy Ending, Handcuffs, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Smut, Sub Castiel, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-09 16:43:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7809571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosie_berber/pseuds/rosie_berber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel suggests the forging of some more supernatural handcuffs for selfish, smutty reasons. Some kinky things follow.</p><p>In the same universe as all of these other trashy fics, where Dean and Cas just engage in filthy, filthy things. Because of their profound bond.</p><p>I have a <a href="http://rosie-berber.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> and I don't know how to use it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Castiel Has a Great Idea.

The idea snuck into Castiel’s mind halfway through his cup of coffee, as he sat alongside the Winchesters as they were eating breakfast. Sam was slicing into an egg white omelette before his morning run; Dean was shovelling cereal into his mouth, little splashes of milk missing the mark and ending up all over his beloved bunker robe. It was a rare moment where no one was speaking of monsters or mayhem, where the remaining members of Team Free Will were slowly greeting a new day. A moment that almost pained Castiel to disturb.

 

“I have been thinking,” he mumbled under his breath, eyes boring into the table below, unsure either of the men would be receptive to shop talk this early in the morning.

 

The brothers simultaneously turn towards the angel in confusion. “Cas, you’ve gotta speak up. Not all of us have angel ears,” Dean grumbles mid-bite.

 

Castiel lifts his head, taking in a deep breath before proceeding. “It is just that - I was thinking - the supernatural handcuffs - perhaps we should forge another pair? It seems unwise, given our luck, to only have one. They have proved quite beneficial in the past.” As soon as he has finished speaking, Castiel lifts the coffee mug to his lips, eagerly anticipating the Winchesters’ response behind the safety of ceramic.

 

Sam looks at Dean with wide eyes and raised eyebrows  - Dean slowly nods his head while jutting out his bottom lip, immediately before proceeding to tip the contents of his cereal bowl towards his mouth, lapping up the sweetened milk at its bottom.

 

“It’s a good idea, Cas. We can work on it together when I get back in from my morning ten?” As Castiel meets his inquiry with an affirming smile, Sam stands to walk his dishes towards the sink. He absent-mindedly begins to stretch in the kitchen, within view of his brother, prone to jabbing him for his wholly unacceptable interest in maintaining his health.

 

“Sammy, does it really count as a workout if you’re only doing it for ten minutes?” Dean prods, resting his hands on his stomach, swollen with Lucky Charms of the unsupernatural sort.

 

Sam’s well-rehearsed reaction, the “I can’t believe I put up with your shit” bitchface immediately takes over. “Ten miles Dean. Ten miles.”

 

Bitchface is met with exaggerated shock, Dean baring his teeth as if Sam has detailed some sort of Herculean labour. “Yeesh. Sounds like torture, if you ask me.”

 

“No one did. Not all of us feel so at ease with the idea of our hearts giving out at forty. Speaking of which, how many years until you hit the big four-zero? Probably should go see a doctor, old man...”

 

“You...you shut your cakehole, bitch.”

 

Sam quickly runs towards the bunker’s entrance, if only to escape the menacing threat of being assaulted by Dean’s slippers being thrown at him.

 

Dean soon finds himself under the watchful gaze of eyes of ice blue. “Dean, you do not need to worry about cardiac health. If it comes to that, I will heal you,” Castiel reassures, his hand clasping the man’s terry-clothed shoulder.

 

“Anyone ever tell you - you’re an angel, Cas.”

 

Castiel’s eyebrows tilt towards his nose as his neck cranes. “Of course I am - my grace is back intact Dean. Had you forgotten..."

 

Dean stares blankly at the ever-literal being at his side. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

 

xxxxx

 

The three men divide the necessary tasks for crafting the supernatural restraints. Castiel is put on Enochian code duty, Sam takes up the hellish beast brigade, and Dean is happily put in charge of engraving the sigils the two nerds provide him.

 

“There’s one more spell I’d like to cast on these - except - we don’t have one of the ingredients,” Castiel bemoans without looking  up from his spellbook.

 

“What do you need?” Sam asks, snapping Castiel out of his trance.

 

“A holy relic. Bone fragment from a saint.”

 

“Okay, where do I get that from?” Sam inquires, as if Castiel was in need of some fresh tarragon or white asparagus, rather than a holy body part.

 

“Actually - there’s quite a few in St. Marys. A relic chapel there.”

 

“That’s what - about a three hour drive from here?” Sam looks down at his watch. “If I leave now, I could be there and back by tonight.”

 

“I’ll go with you,” Dean offers half-heartedly.

 

“Dean - it’s just petty robbery from Catholics. Nothing to worry about. You stay here and … keep carving? I’ll be back soon.” One change of clothes and a smoothie to go later, Sam finds himself on the road, and Dean and Castiel find themselves alone in the bunker.

 

xxxxx

 

“How’s my handiwork look?” Dean asks, Castiel hovering so close he is nearly perched on Dean’s shoulders.

 

“You have a gift for this. In another life, you would have made quite the blacksmith. Or welder. Very nice job.” Castiel passes his fingers over the etchings, lightly grazing one of Dean’s knuckles. The hunter shudders from the touch.

 

The angel quickly takes a seat next to Dean. “It would be prudent for us to test these thus far, to see if we are on the right track.”

 

“Of course. You can put em on and try to zap out?” Dean tries desperately to supress the flush he feels flooding his face from the brief physical connection between himself and Castiel. When he is about to claim victory over the sensation, his hand is unfairly seized by the angel.

 

“Dean, we are not wholly unlike humans. Whether it be angels or demons - our power, our force, it magnifies with a spike of adrenaline. For us to fully understand if these are effective, I will need to be under some degree of duress.” Castiel clutches the hunter’s hand forcefully as if to punctuate his point.

 

Dean manages to expel an uncomfortable laugh from his lungs, daring to meet the angel’s intense gaze, immediately regretting his bravery when he feels the all-too-familiar burning begin to build deep within. “What do you have in mind?”

 

Castiel, speaking as if he is talking about the weather or sports or something else entirely inconsequential speaks. “I will surrender to your will. And you must find a way to make me want to break free.”

 

That burning Dean was feeling was a pathetic smolder to the raging fire he feels shooting through his body at the angel’s suggestion. He tries to play it off with a joke, retreating to the familiar comfort of sarcasm. “Cas, I’d like to think I’m good, giving and game, but whips and chains ain’t really my bag.”

 

Castiel’s fingers move from Dean’s hand to his thighs, intently gripping the unbelievable hardness he finds there. “Dean Winchester, there are other ways to make me submit.”

 

Without thinking, Dean’s hands grab the handcuffs, pulling Castiel’s hands within them within seconds. “Yeah angel? I’m ready to find out how.”

 


	2. The Rules of Engagement.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick chapter where our two heroes engage in something very important: a conversation about consent.

Castiel’s heart begins to boom like an overzealous marching band percussionist when the cold metal of the cuff makes contact with his wrist. Even though he had spent the better part of the past decade doing as Dean said, the sexual undertones of the hunter’s dominance had always remained within the realm of subtext. Until now. Until Castiel had nearly taunted Dean to force him to submit, the guise of “research” as threadbare as Dean’s well-worn band t-shirt.

 

Castiel found himself bound, by iron and by Dean’s voice, which seemingly had dropped an octave since taking on the role of Castiel’s master. His nervousness had seemingly dissipated in a matter of seconds. But underneath the sharp, sensual decisiveness of Dean’s tone, still there was affection and concern. His hands lie on top of Castiel’s own as he made the case for conditions. 

 

“From what I know about these sorts of things, we need to agree to some ground rules before going any further. Things that are definite no’s.”

 

The list of nevers proves itself to be surprisingly short. 

 

“And a safe word - you’ll need a safe word.”

 

The question immediately found itself planted within Castiel’s mind. He thought of all of the unsafe words one might encounter in any number of spell books, but he was sure he was inoculated against almost the entirety of human vernacular. Pursed lips and furrowed brows did all the talking that was necessary, for Castiel soon found Dean elaborating.

 

“It’s something you will say if you want me to stop. Because I don’t want to do anything to you that you truly, wholly can’t handle, especially if these things are working and you’re not able to fend for yourself.”

 

The concern for safety, the desire for protection: these were things Castiel understood. He shifted his hands within the cuffs to place his palms upwards, making sure to look directly in Dean’s eyes as he responded. “Okay Dean, my safe word will be  _ stop _ .”

 

Like a million times before where Castiel was certain he had said the right thing, he was met with a look on Dean’s face that told him the opposite. “No Cas - it’s - it’s something you wouldn’t accidentally say in the heat of the moment. Something unsexy. Something that lets me know you really want to press pause on things.”

 

“Dean, I can assure you, I always mean what I say. But if you insist on something that will crush my libido … might I suggest  _ God _ ?” 

 

Castiel can feel Dean’s heavy breath flow from his nostrils, landing warmly on his own cheek. The heft of his breath tells him that he has managed to miss the mark again. “You’re kidding, right?”

 

“Again, I fail to see what I am saying that is humorous. When I think of the opposite of the carnal, I think of the divine. Is that really so strange?”

 

“It’s just - Cas - people when they are - when people get excited - it’s a pretty common thing to call out.”

 

“They shouldn’t - it is a grave sin. A commandment.” Castiel pauses to scan his admittedly scant sexual experience for a reference, landing on one that leaves goosebumps on his arms in its wake. “Although now that I remember, you do sometimes tend to mumble my father’s name under your breath when you get aroused.”

 

Dean offers a strained smile and a small, pained laugh. This is not how he thought this would all get started. “Yeah, well, what can I say? I don’t really sweat the smaller blasphemies. What, with all the stealing and killing tarnishing my gold star, as it is.”

 

“I suppose that is true. Okay, so I choose something that I find deplorable or undesirable.”

 

“That’s the idea.”

 

Castiel closes his eyes, focusing intently on all the things he has come to find distasteful. The face of the leader of the Leviathans pops into his head, as Castiel’s time in purgatory was not something he wished to repeat. But even he knows that the word  _ dick _ would likely fall from his lips once he and Dean got started. He scans his memory for something that would definitively mean that he surrendered, that this was all too much, something banal and awful and decidedly unsexy, something so dreadful he would think of it in a moment of terror.

 

“ _President Trump_. My safeword will be _President Trump_ ,” he says assertively, Dean giving him a quick grin and a thumbs up as an affirmation of his choice. 

 

The hunter’s hand moves towards Castiel’s chest, wrapping blue silk around his knuckles, touching foreheads with the angel. “Alright Cas,” Dean whispers roughly, “you cry Trump, this all stops.”

  
Castiel has no sooner nodded in agreement than he finds himself pulled to the floor, led by his tie, palms and shins slowly sliding against the bunker’s concrete floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Castiel's safeword is in honour of Trump's #1 troll, our beloved Misha.


	3. Four Basic Commands.

 

“ _Come._ ”

 

Castiel’s hands slowly inch their way forward across the cool cement, left and right shifting in the small amount of movement afforded by the shackles. Staggered breaths fall from chapped lips, less from struggle than from full-fledged intoxication with the fully agreeable position he finds himself in. Every part of his body on board as he slowly crawls, directed by the sapphire silk he finds cutting across his cheekbones as Dean leads the way.

 

“ _Stay_.”

 

The command is made as Dean’s hand lets go of the makeshift leash, pushing at the archives’ shelves to get towards the dungeon, a most fitting setting for the evening’s upcoming activities. Castiel is certain his obedience is not yet an issue as he feels his hardness fighting with the front of his trousers.

 

As the shelves part, Dean roughly grabs at the handcuffs to pull Castiel back onto his feet, the angel stumbling towards the interrogation seat usually reserved for whatever Big Bad the Winchesters had unwittingly released upon the world that year. With determined resolve, Dean quickly strips Castiel of his clothing, piece by piece. The pentagram on the floor is soon obscured by the pieces of Castiel’s armour, with the suit and shirt and yes, even the tie the angel was learning to love for a whole host of new reasons. All but the bright orange boxer briefs that do little to hide Castiel’s titillation at his current predicament, a small stained spot one indication of his enthusiastic consent to the role he has found himself in.

 

Dean walks behind the angel, landing two calloused hands on the hard muscle of Castiel’s shoulders.

 

“ _Sit_.”

 

The demand is gruffly grunted. Without thinking, Castiel obliges, shuddering from the cold steel of Dean’s voice as he settles into the chair.

 

Castiel’s wrists are unsecured only for the manacles to be relocked behind his back. Coils of hemp rope quickly snake themselves around his chest and feet, firmly and intently binding him to the metal chair. As masterful as Dean might be with a knot, Castiel knows that, if he was at full power, if these handcuffs do not dull his abilities, he will easily be able to use his grace to break free from the restraints. As it stands, he certainly is in no rush to do so.

 

Especially as Dean abruptly lowers the zipper of his own jeans, quickly working his own stiff cock from the denim into his hand, fingers gripping tightly, pumping, putting on a show for his prisoner. His other hand quickly finds itself entangled in Castiel’s hair, grasping tightly at the strands to take the angel’s head under his control. He tugs firmly and forcefully - hints of pain finding their way to Castiel’s scalp as his eyes are directed towards Dean’s thickness throbbing near the angel’s panting mouth. Castiel’s tongue reaches outward, desperately trying to make contact with the small amount of precome glistening on Dean’s swollen head. He longs for its length to make its way past his lips and down his throat. He is damn close to begging for it. Not that Dean needs Castiel’s words to know precisely what he has an appetite for in the moment. For a moment, the hunter obliges, letting his dick graze across Castiel’s lips, pulsating and warm. No sooner has Castiel had his wish granted than Dean pulls back, concealing himself once more beneath dark blue fabric, only the outline of his erection now visible.

 

A frustrated gasp works its way through Castiel’s lungs as he instinctively lunges towards that of which he has been deprived, the fibres of the rope burning against his chest.

 

“ _Heel_.”

 

Dean is not happy with the angel’s impatience, thrusting his hand hard into Castiel’s chest to keep the angel at bay. Castiel readies himself for whatever discipline Dean is preparing to dish out, nearly gleeful in his anticipation for a smack to a surface to his skin. Anything to dull the resounding want coursing through his system.

 

He is shocked with the sensation Dean chooses, certain the man has lost sight of their mission and praising every deity he knows for the detour.

 

A hand tightly grips Castiel’s cock through cotton, only to be followed by the warmth of an eager mouth once it is free. Green eyes lock onto blue as Dean slowly savours Castiel, several long sucks from head to base, nestling his nose into hair before coming back up for air. A whimper finds its way through gritted teeth as his body trembles, unable to do anything other than succumb to the power Dean is wielding over him.

 

“Close,” Castiel manages to mumble, hips thrusting up to mimic the sentiment, seeking the oblivion the back of Dean’s throat promises. He can see his release upon the horizon just as Dean’s mouth tightly moves back up his shaft, a small kiss finding its way to the top of Castiel’s slit.

 

Castiel can taste his own saltiness on the hunter’s lips as Dean departs from the dungeon with a peck, leaving the angel at the brink with no recourse. The pain of unfulfilled arousal tells Castiel he may have have underestimated Dean’s capacity for punishment.

 

 

 


	4. Fight or Flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this has taken so long! I had several drafts going and then I sprained my ankle and I'm the worst. I think I need a bit of Dean's discipline myself (yes please!)

Castiel’s throat heaves as he swallows all the pleas his heart wants to shout out. The gulp echoes through the emptiness of the dungeon.  _ Pull yourself together,  _ he commands shaking fingers and uneven breath as he tries to muster up the strength to endure the dizzying pain of denial.  _ Fly away to your happy place,  _ his mind thinks on instinct. And then it hits him: not what he feels, but what is absent. The heft he should feel at his shoulderblades that isn’t there. Because even though they had now long ceased to be any good for flying, Castiel could always still feel the weight of his wings, broken though they may be, as he made his way through the world. He should feel that vague disappointment flow through him when he stretches them outright, all bone and no feather. Except when Castiel tries to recall his wings from that nearby plane of existence where he keeps them in storage, he feels nothing. In fact, in this moment, he feels utterly human. 

 

Shifting what little he can as the rope burns at his chest, the cold steel at his wrists, Castiel realizes that these handcuffs might have been more effective than he bargained for.

 

Being left to simmer in his own frustrations was hardly unfamiliar for Castiel. Sometimes it seemed that life was little more than a ceaseless string of kidnappings and interrogations. But though he had been left at the, for lack of a better word,  _ mercy _ of some truly despicable creatures, no one had ever thought before to torture Castiel with pleasure. That is, not until Dean. As Castiel does everything in his limited power to ignore the pain of his unfilled gratification, pulling in the long, lamaze-like breaths, counting the seconds since Dean has abandoned him, Castiel is suddenly thankful for that oversight.

 

It has been two thousand and sixty four seconds since Dean left him when the sound of shifting shelves forces Castiel out of the trance he has forced himself into.

 

“Hello, Dean,” he greets his captor, his voice ragged and wrecked by the difficulty of walking himself away from was promising to be a thoroughly enjoyable orgasm.

 

“Hello, Castiel,” Dean mutters back. The formality of the name’s fullness speaks to the hunter’s seriousness. As much as he curses his wretched body for doing so, Castiel feels himself perk up at the utterance. “Ready for round two?”

 

The angel wants to throw every vulgarity and expletive in every language Dean’s way, still reeling from his reckless abandon. He wants to tell Dean he’s an asshole, that he will have his revenge, that payback is a bitch. He wants to remind Dean of his power, to slam him against a wall, to put him in his place. At least, he thinks that is what he wants. Because while all of those thoughts float through Castiel’s head, he doesn’t act on them.

 

Instead, he nods, finding himself longing for whatever Dean’s will has in store for him next.

 

As it turns out, one of the things Dean wants is a change of scenery. He unties the angel, leaving only the handcuffs intact, marching a nearly nude Castiel throughout the bunker to Room 11. 

 

“Go to the bed,” Dean demands.

 

Castiel practically trips over himself to oblige.

 

Dean grabs Castiel by the cuffs, unlocking them. Castiel could use the opportunity to flee, but as he looks at the intensity of Dean’s eyes, suddenly there is no part of him that wishes to partake in that option. Dean’s fingers graze across the metal, pulling the handcuffs towards a chrome ring that has somehow found itself adorning the wall just above the headboard of Dean’s bed. While Dean attaches the handcuffs through the ring, Castiel turns his head to the right, noticing an electric drill atop Dean’s dresser. Dean’s whereabouts of the past half hour are suddenly a bit easier to account for.

 

Castiel feels two sensations in contrast - hands forced to press against the hardness of the brick wall while his knees sink into the softness of Dean’s mattress. They are suddenly met by a third, as Dean’s body presses its weight against Castiel’s back.

 

“We know these things can hold up against someone under mental duress,” he whispers, his lips lingering next to the skin of Castiel’s ear. The angel shudders at the regained touch. “Next step is to see how they handle distress of a different sort.” Dean’s lips graze the top of Cas’s cheekbone, his words promising pain while his touch reasserts the experience won’t be wholly unenjoyable. “Think you can handle that angel?”  

  
The question has no sooner dripped from Dean’s mouth than Castiel feels the hard smack of a calloused hand against the cotton of his boxer briefs, whelping his response into the wall.


	5. The Right Words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being significantly fluffier than I anticipated. But who am I to doubt my smut muse?

The first smack reverberates through Castiel’s entire body. His fingers desperately seek something to clutch but find only brick and mortar at their disposal. Before he has time to take another breath into his lungs, to regain some semblance of control over his body, another thwack establishes symmetry, an exquisite warmth spreading across each of his cheeks. Dean’s behaviour leaves Castiel with one singular recourse.

 

He moans for more.

 

The sight of Castiel on his knees is enough to bring Dean to his, nearly collapsing his body into the genuflecting angel’s. He’s fully ready to confess that he has equally lost himself to the situation, his mouth singing Castiel’s praises in between the bruising kisses he bites into submissive shoulderblades. A chorus of _damns_ and _fucks_ mixed with reverent _perfects_ and _beautifuls_. Each utterance punctuated by another firm smack upon the thin layer of orange cotton that separates the two men.

 

Castiel’s wordless whimpers in response provide Dean with a moment of revelation: that fabric barrier is wholly unnecessary. And so it finds itself hooked under Dean’s thumbs, shifted just below that perfect curvature of Castiel’s ass, as if to frame the masterpiece. A peculiar mixture of pride, affection and need has Dean swelling at the sight of the tan of Cas’s skin already painted several shades of pink.

 

“You look fucking incredible like this,” he manages to mumble gruffly as a lone finger trails down Castiel’s spine, hesitating when it arrives at its destination. Because then, as if an instinct, his hands leave Castiel’s body to tend to his own, quickly working through denim to pull his hardness into his hand, shuddering at the first few strokes he makes down his swollen shaft. Dean pushes his arousal into the jut of Castiel’s hipbone (which was ironic, because it was that particular piece of Castiel’s anatomy that had so often gotten Dean hard), announcing to the angel his admiration and intentions.

 

Their bodies pressed almost impossibly close, Dean’s fingers grasp roughly at Castiel’s hair as he growls his admission into the crook of Castiel’s neck.

 

“Feel what you do to me?”

 

Castiel somehow manages to make multiple syllables out of the word _yes_ , the simple acknowledgement pouring out of his mouth, a mouth that so desperately wants to make contact with Dean’s, a mouth that quivers at the deprivation.

 

The first few hits were tentative, a sort of necessary test to make sure this territory was one both men were eager to traverse. But as Dean’s cock ruts against Castiel’s bare back and Castiel’s leaks against his own belly, their bodies seem in accord that this investigation was wholly necessary and entirely worthwhile.

 

Dean has some idea on how this is supposed to go. After all, he is a thirty something year old man with an incredible WiFi connection and a varied sexual appetite. He is sure he is supposed to say all sorts of domineering things, words that would coax submission. He’s supposed to talk about obedience: to commend Castiel’s ability to follow orders and to discipline any lack of decorum or deference. Dean is sure he is supposed to use force to remind Castiel he is not all powerful, that he can be put in his place. He is sure he is supposed to be clinical, methodical, in charge. But in this moment, with a being beneath him that can level cities without losing his breath, that smites demons with no more than his touch, Dean doesn’t feel _any_ degree of control. In fact, he feels utterly overwhelmed by Castiel’s willingness to give into his every whim.

 

He should tell him what plans he has for his body. How he is going to taunt and tease him, how he plans to bring him to the edge and back again, how he is going to make Castiel _beg_ for mercy. He has all those words arranged in his mind, carefully curated from the best smut his mind has seen. But in this moment, as Castiel whimpers _yes_ and _more_ and _please_ , there is only one thing Dean can manage to get out of his mouth.

 

_I love you._

 

The three words repeat over and over, as if on a loop.

 

_I love you_ as he lands a hand on that ever reddening expanse of skin, over and over again. Blow after blow born not out of anger nor resentment, but a sign of their mutual wreckage. Out of an emotional intensity that propels and seeks physical force to match what lives inside both men.

 

_I love you_ as his fingers dip in and out of Castiel’s mouth, as they pull at his hair. As the angel whispers and whimpers while his eyes fill with tears. Tears born not out of desperation or regret, but the limits of this vessel. A body’s desperate attempt to match the fullness of the bond between two souls.

 

A chorus of _I love you_ ’s  as teeth print bruises on shoulders, necks and wrists. As Dean’s nails leave trails of red in their wake.

 

An _I love you_ shakes from Dean’s throat as his fingers dig into Castiel’s flesh, just before his tongue dives wildly at the angel’s entrance.

 

He mutters _I love you_ into the small of Castiel’s back as a solitary slick finger passes the breach. One insistently moving forward, then another, opening and closing as Castiel pleads for him to go harder, faster, deeper.

 

An _I love you_ stretched out as long as it takes for his body and Castiel’s to become one, as his full length becomes engulfed by the angel’s heaving body. An _I love you_ for every forceful thrust, exceedingly inarticulate as flesh pounds into flesh, as the fading red of Castiel’s form becomes crimson once more, Dean possessed by a need to consume, destroy, wreck the body pulsating beneath his own.

 

_I love you_ as the angel can take no more, his head turning towards the ceiling as his eyes roll back, releasing his pleasure onto the headboard and pillow before him. _I love you_ with a minute of unrestrained movement, of forcing his body to plunge deeply into the warmth of Castiel’s, to seek the oblivion hidden deep within.

 

An _I love you_ as Dean approaches the summit and reaches the peak, holding onto Castiel as if his life depended on it.

 

Followed by a key in a lock, a perfect fit.

 

Two bodies falling prostrate.

 

Two sets of lips finally meeting.

 

Two _I love you_ ’s spoken in unison.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, one of those last lines was DEFINITELY an allusion to .


	6. The Best Fanfic Trope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeeee thanks for reading this silly little smut that somehow turned very very fluffy.

When Cas’s eyes first open, the sheets smell of sweat and sex and it smells good. He glances over at his left wrist, the handcuffs still hanging there like a perverse bracelet.  _ They did their job _ , he thinks, although he is uncertain as to which purpose they had most effectively served. True, their bondage had inhibited all his supernatural capabilities - but was that ever really the point? Castiel shrugs, satisfied with the events they had unfurled.

 

A soft snore fills the room. It is then that Castiel notices Dean is spread fully across the mattress, naked as the day he was born, his mouth muttering subconscious thoughts into his pillow. Castiel smiles at the sight, tucking his head into the meat of Dean’s arm.

 

The contact is enough to elicit a sleepy grin from the man, who manages to wake himself enough to mutter a string of somewhat coherent thoughts into Castiel’s hair.

 

“So they worked?”

 

“I’d say so,” Castiel responds, pressing a quick kiss to that spot on Dean’s shoulder that had once been his undoing.

 

“Hrm.” Dean’s eyes once again fall shut. “Cas?”

 

“Yes Dean?”

 

“When they were on …” Dean hesitates before finishing his sentence. Castiel is unsure if it is because he is uncertain about his question, or if he has fallen back asleep. “When they were on - what did you want? More than anything?”

 

Dean pulls the angel’s body closer to his own as he waits for his answer.

 

In a small, shy voice, Castiel manages to whisper  _ “this.” _

 

Dean kisses where hair meets skin, assuring to the angel he meant what he said during the throes of passion. Dean Winchester was not one to love lightly, and it made Castiel feel like nothing else mattered. 

 

Including the footsteps softly treading across the bunker’s ground. A sound that does not register to either of the men so wrapped up in one another that the rest of the world seemed like a mere distraction.

 

But, as it turns out, it didn’t matter that they were deaf to that sound, for Sam’s face as he finds the two men nakedly intertwined, without a worry in the world, speaks volumes.

 

“I GOT THE BONE!” he screams as he sprints from Dean’s doorway down the hall. 

 

His choice of words leaves the lovers in stitches. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The best fanfic trope is the one where Sam walks in on Cas and Dean in a compromised state.


End file.
